


The Grand Finale

by tetsugoushi (gitalee)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables (Movie 1978), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: AU: Javert Doesn't Jump (Yet), Choose Your Own Javert, Desperation, Emotionally Compromised Decision-Making, Javert's Confused Boner, Last Night on Earth, Lots of Talk, M/M, Middle Aged Virgins, Mixed Canons, Old Man Porn and Pathos, Old Virgin Silliness, Sins, Some Action, Suicidality, Then I Defy You (Comma) Stars, Valjean's Confused Everything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 16:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gitalee/pseuds/tetsugoushi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>If his soul was damned to Hell one way or another, it would be a waste to die a virgin.  Therefore, Javert was going to go fornicate before he died.</i>
</p><p>Javert is determined to go out with a bang.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [辉煌的谢幕](https://archiveofourown.org/works/941551) by [micorom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/micorom/pseuds/micorom)



Everything was in perfect order, except for his thoughts, but those would be put to rest soon enough.

Javert set his hat down upon the parapet with great conviction. He could feel the air in his hair, and wondered for a moment what it would feel like on the way down. A cold shower? A brisk chill? A snowstorm? Would the air be colder, or the water? The water, of course. It may have been early June on the calendar, but any Parisian knew that it was always winter in the Seine.

It somehow seemed ignoble to die without his hat; that had been one of the foolish ideas to cross his mind at the barricades as well, to die in the garb of a laborer and not a man of justice. At least his death now would be in uniform, but he didn't dare risk his hat coming off on the way down, flying away on the breeze, making his death a source of amusement for any onlookers. Inspector Javert had never been the cause of people's smiles in life, and he'd be damned if he was going to be the same in death, either.

"Of course," he said aloud, "I'm damned regardless."

Hearing the words put to voice gave him pause. When he'd first conceived the notion that a fall from the Pont-au-Change might solve the moral dilemma tearing him apart, it had occurred to him that suicide was a mortal sin. Whether there was a God above, he could not say; the past twelve hours had sent his faith and beliefs flying apart. If there was not, why, he would die, and that would be the end: blackness. And if there was, as the very existence of Jean Valjean the convict-saint seemed to suggest, he would be damned, exactly as he deserved. He had damned other sinners to prison, some even to the guillotine, in his work for the police; he himself deserved no lighter penalty. Justice would be his, and he would go to Hell with the rest of the guilty.

He leaned over the parapet for a moment, hat sitting to his side like a silent spectator, and stared at the water below. As all members of the police force and any local mother of small children knew, this was not a part of the Seine that lent itself to easy recovery. Even in the depths of night, the starlight lit up the world enough for him to see the white-tipped eddies churning below the bridge, ceaselessly whispering of the depths and stones below. It would probably hurt, but he had known little but pain throughout his life; it was not worth fretting over. If he fell just right it might even be over before he knew it, and then he would be where he was destined to be.

It was unfortunate, though. Before this night and its confusion heaped upon confusion, Javert had considered himself of the righteous. If there were no God, he would die, and that would be the end, but if there were, ah, no matter what doubts crossed his mind, his behavior was beyond reproach. He had done right all his life.

More right than most who considered themselves saved, to be sure. Why, he had kept himself clean of passion: even a pinch of snuff, his one guilty pleasure, was an indulgence no more terrible or significant than putting jam on a slice of bread. He was damned, but except for his own murder -- an indelible stain, to be sure -- his soul was pure.

Javert unsteadily pulled himself up to stand beside his hat. Here he could feel the wind even more strongly; it pulled at his coat like the fingers of the poor at the carriages of gentlefolk, greedy and cold. He looked down once more, but from this higher vantage point, the rapids of the Seine seemed to level out, with only the occasional reflection of the heavens to break the darkness. He took a deep breath.

A shooting star streaked across the sky, and for a moment he heard his mother's voice, telling him that she had seen a comet through the infirmary window on the night he was born, and how lucky a sign that was. It just showed how little the criminal vagabond knew. She was in prison for fortunetelling, and hadn't even been any good at it.

Why was he thinking of his mother? Perhaps he would see her in Hell, and he could tell her how wrong she'd been about his life. She'd looked at his palm and predicted that he would never again see prison walls once he was a man, that he would meet a beautiful wife with hair of gold who would take care of him all his days, that he would end his time on earth old and white-haired in his bed with fifteen grandchildren at his side. The fool. The closest she'd come to accuracy in any of those predictions was that his hair was streaked with silver now.

Or perhaps that had been a mother's wishful thinking, and she had chosen to see his fortune through a mirror: he'd begun his career in a prison and had visited criminals there regularly; no beauty, golden-tressed or otherwise, had ever crossed his path and caught his fancy; far from having fifteen grandchildren, he had never even known another's touch in his half-century of life. Perhaps he was just backward, or his natural contrariness ran deeper than even he knew.

Javert looked up at the sky. The sky did not look back at him, but he spoke to it anyway.

"Had I been killed at the barricade," he said, "I would have gone to heaven and been seated among the best. Instead, I am condemned to burn with the sinners, those who committed vile deeds and sins of the flesh time and time again, though I myself have never even-"

He paused. He had never before let cross his lips a thought that had run through his mind intermittently all through his adult life, and had particularly been circling through his consciousness that night. The stars remained silent, but the river continued to grumble below.

"...Although," he continued, running his hands through his hair, not quite sure where his mind was going, "if my soul is a lost cause anyway-"

Finally, the idea took form, and struck him with almost painful force, as though he had been hit with one of the cannonballs that had been fired that afternoon; he staggered backward, off the parapet and back to a more stable ground. He would grant himself a brief reprieve; that was all. Brief but eventful, if his ridiculous idea could be put into reality.

He considered leaving his hat -- the parapet would be waiting for him when he returned -- but the thought of some urchin stealing and wearing it while he was still alive to see it sent a flare of anger through his belly. He shoved it roughly onto his head instead, and walked with great determination down the path that led to the seediest district within reach.

\--

As he walked, Javert mentally listed the possible sins that he could commit in a few hours’ time; he really did want to be done with the river before the bridge became a busy thoroughfare. He had always presumed that he would be forgiven for not honoring his mother and his father, as they were without honor themselves. That was not a blasphemy that he took pleasure in, either; it was simply a matter-of-fact, and thus not worth pursuing in his final moments on earth. He supposed that he also coveted, but similarly, it was more a reality than a conscious choice; he would never be accepted as part of society, and so by becoming an upholder of the law, he was doing the best he could to turn feelings of exclusion into providing a service to the world that did not want him. That too was nothing in which he could take pleasure. He wanted his damnation to be something he would enjoy.

But he knew that he was letting his thoughts, broken and spent things that they were, escape from what he was truly thinking, what he had truly lacked in his life. What he needed to do.

If his soul was damned to Hell one way or another, it would be a waste to die a virgin. Therefore, Javert was going to go fornicate before he died. 

He had staked out the local brothels and districts of ill-repute enough times that he did not need to pay attention to the way. Instead, he let his mind wander toward what he sought. He didn’t have enough time to be wholly choosy about the prostitute that he selected, and indeed a part of him reeled with disgust at the thought of using a woman who had been used by all walks of men before, but he didn’t know anyone else who might be... accessible and amenable... at this hour.

“Or at any hour,” he muttered to himself. “Can’t be helped.”

Still, Paris had its share of whores, and so he thought he might be able to have some choice in the matter. One that didn’t look diseased, that had to be among his top criteria. One that looked to have reached her majority; that was another. Choosing a fallen woman to lie with might be easier than he thought.

So, then, to consider the finer details...

In his fractured state of mind, he could not come up with a vision of a woman with whom he would like to sin; it was possible that he was hurrying too much as he walked, not letting his body or mind breathe. He took a moment to lean against a brick wall and conjure up a more exact image, so that he would not waste time when he found one that resembled what he wanted.

She would be... tall? Tall might be nice. He would not have to bend in half to put his face near hers, and since he had never kissed another person, he supposed that was something he should try, too. Nothing too breakable; he was not a small man, and he did not want to fear causing damage, even to a low woman who did that sort of thing for a living. His mother had predicted a blonde in his future, but he couldn’t put a specific hair color on the shadowy figure his mind was creating for him; he figured it would all look the same by candlelight anyway. (The dark would have been better, but he had some feeling that his lack of experience might necessitate some precautions.)

She should probably have a bosom, he supposed, although not one that was too large; he could not understand the appeal to women bouncing about like their bodies were rubber balls bound up in lace. She should probably have legs, and a rear end, and -- what else did the men he worked with talk about whilst he endeavored to ignore them? Definitely she should smell good, and have bathed fairly recently; he had smelled his share of prostitutes who used perfume in place of soap, and the very memory nearly made him retch.

Thus, in short...

...he had no image of the kind of woman he was looking for whatsoever, aside from being sturdy and clean. Well. He started walking again with newfound determination, pleased with himself. His lack of extreme preference probably made things easier, for when he...

Well, he didn’t quite know what he would do with her once he got there, but he figured that that was her job to know. All he had to do was lie back and let her work her will with his manhood.

He knew what would happen in theory; it was simply that he was not sure what kind of lover he would be in practice. He was perfectly knowledgeable about such worldly matters, though lacking in first-hand knowledge. He had even felt the shame of arousal from time to time in his life, although never in the presence of a prostitute. 

He came to a sudden halt, boots skidding a bit as an image flashed before his eyes.

Javert had always figured he’d never married because the right woman had never come along; it was just something that happened to men in their turn. Intercourse, too, seemed presumably like something that just happened, after the right woman came along. But the fact that he’d never known arousal in the presence of a woman -- that could be a problem. Even still, as he tried to hold an image of his acceptable partner in his mind, he could feel himself not growing with lust, but actually shrinking in dismay, crawling back up between his thighs, as it had always done when he had been propositioned by a woman of the night.

It had never been an issue before, of course, because he had been on the path of the just, and the just man waited for his intended, and then they would know each other in proper ways. But now that he was going to die, and had decided that propriety could be thrown by the wayside, he had to wonder: was it more of a waste to die pure by choice, or to die pure because his body failed him when faced with opportunity?

He could almost hear the whores laughing at him now, and he stopped and drew a deep breath. 

Pride too was a crime against God, so if he was going to die a sinner, he might as well maintain it.

“I’m sure there are plenty of other terrible things I’ve been missing out on besides fornication,” he muttered to himself, and turned on his heel. “Liquor. Vandalism. Forgery. Theft.”

So many opportunities. All he needed was someone to guide him in the most efficient way.

His feet knew where to take him. He’d already been there once that night.


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn't the worst day of Jean Valjean's life — that would have to be his first day at Toulon, when he could not stop his tears or the thought that Jeanne's family did not even get to eat the bread that had sent him there — but it was certainly one of the strangest.

He sat, he paced, he rubbed at weary muscles as he waited for the caller who would bring his life to an end. Valjean had expected the inspector to take him directly, to be waiting outside his home, but the other man had vanished. God only knew what duty superseded that of closing a case nearly twenty years untouched. God, and Inspector Javert.

Valjean's heart had not stopped racing after all the day had put it through -- the barricade, the sewers, Thenardier, and that last carriage ride -- though by now its pace was limping and exhausted. In Javert's absence, he had tried his best to get his affairs in order. In a way, he had practice with the material goods from when he was Madeleine, but this time, as it had not been since he was a very young man who still could use his own name in polite society, he had someone who would miss him. He did not pray for escape anymore; he simply prayed that Cosette's beloved would live, and she would not be left alone.

When it became apparent that the spectre of the law was taking its time to grace his doorstep, Valjean had hesitantly seated himself at his writing desk and began his last confession to his beloved child, rushing through the details so that she might know how much her fool of a father adored her, and how he did not deserve her forgiveness, but asked it nonetheless. Though a part of him had been composing this note since he had first taken the girl from the Sergeant at Waterloo, his hand dripped with uncertainty, and the letter had more ink blotches and scratched-out words than a new schoolboy's primer. It was all he could do, without knowing when this reprieve would end, when he would leave his love behind forevermore.

And yet, even after he’d sealed the note with wax and written Cosette's name across the front with agonizing care, Javert still had not come. A whisper in his mind suggested that perhaps he had been forgotten, or pardoned, but a much louder voice reprimanded that whisper for not knowing the policeman who had turned up over and over throughout Valjean's life, by accident or by design. There was certainly no getting rid of Javert so easily.

Tucking the letter into his breast pocket, he began to pace again, and then found himself at the task that soothed his agitations the most reliably: polishing the silver candlesticks on the mantle. 

He could see his red-rimmed eyes as in a mirror in the first silver piece, and was just beginning the same efforts with the second when finally, he heard the sound he had been expecting. Though tardy, the knock at the door was as unrelenting and decisive as he'd heard in his nightmares.

Jean Valjean drew a deep breath, set his letter down on the desk, and went to open the door to the end of his life.

The police spy stood at the door, his frame stretched to its most intimidating capacities, his eyes steady. Javert did not say a word.

"Inspector," swallowed Valjean after an uncomfortable pause, "I had expected you much sooner. I thank you for your compassion in letting me get my affairs in order, and I shall not request any more time of you."

He bowed slightly, determined to face his fate with dignity, and held his hands before him for the cuffs. At this, the inspector finally moved, but not for his tools: brusquely and silently, he shouldered past Valjean and into his home, sweeping off his hat in a bizarre display of propriety.

"I-inspector?"

The tall man turned, and held out his headpiece. "I crave a word. Is there a place I can leave this?"

With no other choice apparent, Valjean accepted the hat and then the greatcoat, hanging them without comment by the door. He heard rustling and clinking in his cupboards, and puzzled for a fraction of a moment before hurrying into the kitchen.

"Sit down, sit down, Valjean. I have everything under control. Are you in some kind of rush?" In Javert's hands were two goblets, and there was a bottle of wine on the table that hadn't been there before.

Perhaps a toast to the end of the chase? Valjean had never suspected his pursuer to be the sentimental sort, but humans -- which, apparently, Javert happened to be -- were ever-surprising creatures.

"Sit down, I said," Javert repeated, and Valjean, again with no other recourse, complied.

“Wine?” he asked weakly. His unwanted guest smiled at him, and it was a terrible sight. He was seated at a table with predator contemplating its prey.

Javert made short work of the cork, and poured generous helpings of sanguine liquid into the two glasses. “Wine,” he confirmed unnecessarily. “What, Valjean, you don’t feel the need to celebrate? You have survived a visit to barricades peopled by idiots with guns and explosives; you have trudged through the filthy intestines of Paris herself; you have brought your daughter back the corpse of her dreams. And, most importantly, today will be the last time you ever have to face your humble inspector. Today you meet your destiny. It has been a most momentous day, has it not?”

It was not the first time that Valjean had heard this tone from Javert, but there was a slight variance in pitch, or perhaps in rhythm; at any rate, it smacked not a little of some form of repressed hysteria. He had heard the same tone in the voices of the schoolboys just before the barricade was overwhelmed; it had not been a sound that he had ever wanted to hear again.

Valjean recalled how he had found the man trussed up like a beast waiting for the slaughter, and thought for a dark moment that this man would not have survived a month on the other side of the bars of Toulon with his sanity intact. “It has,” he said quietly, raising the glass to his lips, but not taking a sip. He had never been one for wine, due to the sour memory of Toulon rations, but he had to admit that this scent certainly suggested a quality far and beyond the fermented grape piss that still sometimes haunted his senses of taste and smell. “Congratulations, Inspector. I hope you reward yourself with a long rest after such a trying chase.”

Javert chuckled into his glass, sharing some private joke with the vessel. “You know, I think I shall,” he said, draining the goblet of half its contents and eyeing Valjean over the rim. “Drink with me, Valjean. I am sure that you know as well as I that no good comes to men who drink alone.”

Valjean certainly had seen families torn apart by drink in his time as mayor, all those lifetimes ago. His better judgement nevertheless warned him about this unprecedented, suspicious gesture from the inspector, but he had made his peace with what lay ahead, and so he drank, more deeply than he had intended. Javert watched him carefully, and refilled both glasses to nigh-overflowing almost immediately.

Javert drank again, even more deeply than Valjean, and only the faintest crease in his brow as he swallowed suggested that he was unused to the dry tang of the alcohol. Valjean kept his glass in front of him and watched the other man drink.

"Inspector," he said when the other man stopped for a breath, "is... everything all right?"

The reply was reflexively quick. "Drink your wine, Valjean. It wasn't cheap." But then Javert seemed to reflect upon his own words, looking down upon his glass, and smiled his terrible smile once more. "I nearly stole it, you know."

The words were so unexpected that at first they made no sense to Valjean's ears. "You..."

"Drink, drink, and then tell me -- all those years ago, that loaf of bread that I have heard about ad nauseam, I wish to hear about it."

The looming presence of his forthcoming incarceration had been an unacknowledged third party to this kitchen meeting, and heretofore it had kept Valjean's reactions reasonably suppressed; indeed, over half of his mind had committed itself to repeating a mantra of praise to the Lord God for not only the miracles that had transpired that day, but for the few hours' reprieve he'd been given to set his affairs in order. If he had not been so distracted, Valjean would have considered it a justifiable response to, at the very least, throw the contents of his wine into the other man's face, consequences be damned, and had he not been so weary, he may have even considered breaking his long-held vow of pacifism and forcefully removed the police officer from the premises. As things were, he could only choke, and his hand trembled around the stem of the goblet, sloshing blood-red droplets of wine onto the white tablecloth.

He took a deep breath. "Inspector, I beg your forgiveness, but I believe that you already know everything there is to know about that part of my life. It has been more than thirty years; there are adults with children who were not yet born when that happened. I will go with you to receive my proper punishment in the eyes of the law, but I did not believe you to be the kind of man who believed in tormenting the fallen."

Javert looked up from the table with an expression in his pale eyes that Valjean had never seen. "Torment? M- Valjean, I mean no torment. I was merely thinking, for your own good..."

"Yes?" Now Valjean did take a sip, to keep his mouth from saying anything else for the moment.

"Of course your mistake all those years ago cost you many things-" and it was fortunate that Valjean was in fact mid-swallow, so that he would not be tempted to beat the many things that he had lost due to Toulon into the face of his damnable companion, "-but, while you may not know this, I am a curious man by nature. I have often heard that sin is seductive, and thus I simply wondered whether, before you were caught, there was any pleasure derived from breaking one of the Lord's Commandments. "

His fingers of both hands tightened, and only the memory of Cosette picking out the glassware kept him from shattering the goblet in his right hand. In his left, his nails cut into the skin of his palm.

Heedlessly, Javert continued. "I do recall you saying it was for your family, but I thought perhaps that there may have been some dark satisfaction beneath it, the notion of doing something so blatantly sinful. For myself, I used to feel a small thrill when I cursed my parents, though I have since grown accustomed to the notion... so you see, I am no different from you in the eyes of the Lord; it is only in the eyes of the law that we differ."

As though such a trivial connection could excuse such an inconsiderate line of questioning! Though he had often feared and cursed the man's unflagging persistence and narrow-mindedness, Valjean thought that he had never truly hated the police spy until that moment.

"And therefore, I thought... I am sure you have been quite busy and so lacked time to think, but I wonder, Jean Valjean, whether you realize the position you are in right now. After tonight, we are done with each other. And so, if there was some pleasure to be found in the act of thievery, you may appreciate the opportunity to take it one last time. What more can be done to you, after all? The freedom of the damned!"

Javert made no sense. Had the man already indulged in a bottle or two of spirits before arriving at the arranged meeting place? Perhaps that was the reason for the inspector's extended disappearance.

"But of course," Javert continued, "I would not risk letting you slip through my fingers again, so if you felt like going to steal something from some innocent burgher, I would have to accompany you. There are still riots in the streets; I assure you it would be quite easy. Why, as I said, I nearly stole this wine that you hold in your hand; I was able to walk out without paying, and only after a moment did I realize my mistake and return to rectify it. Would you like more to drink? We could try again, and this time I would not falter, if only to understand the joy that you feel."

Valjean had lost any thirst he might have had, and he set his glass down to rub at his eyes. He was far too tired to deal with such utter insanity. "Stealing-"

Just at that moment, Javert seemed to notice that he had drained his glass. "Your sitting room is beyond that door, is it not? If we are going to have a good conversation about this, we should be in the sitting room, not at a table. Let us sit, and then you shall tell me about stealing." He stood up and pushed his chair in with no sign of inebriation. "Come, come, Valjean. Sit. We haven't much time."

It was not solely Jean Valjean's bone-tiredness that left him unable to parse this situation, but his aches and exhaustion were certainly a factor in his inability to process the speed at which this strange early morning was unfolding. There was nothing else to do; he followed Javert to the sitting room.

"Stealing!" said his unwanted guest as soon as Valjean had settled into the opposite side of the long sofa. "The act of taking something one should not possess, something one did not earn by any means. Tell me more about it."

"... Inspector," said Valjean slowly, "I have not stolen one thing since... since my head was shaved by guards with clumsy fingers.” He ran a hand pointedly through his silvering curls. “But from what I recall, it is an act of terror and shame and desperation... and perhaps, if I am to be wholly honest, a bit of anger against the world, and against those who have possessions to call their own. I know not why there is a strange sound of envy in your tone, but I assure you, it is unwarranted, and I would much rather you take me to serve my debts than accompany me on any kind of-”

Javert turned so that his knees pointed in Valjean’s direction, turning that fierce (if now strangely unfocused) expression at him directly. “I am giving you a chance, like you are always pleading for, Valjean. A chance to enjoy the darkness before you return to it. But as we are men of our word, I will believe you that thievery is not worth the effort. What will it be, then? If you had time to commit only one more sin of pleasure before facing eternity in the pit, what would you choose? Surely not even you are saint enough to bury your desires in prayer even at the end of your life.”

Even in Montreuil-sur-Mer, Valjean had known that Javert did not see the world as most did; he was both jaded and naive, full of understanding of human behavior but completely unaware of the workings of the human heart. Though he himself was the one whose life was over, and faced the end of his days in the depths of a prison, somehow it was Javert who seemed to be reaching for support, and a part of Valjean that had long since been buried, the good Mayor Madeleine, felt a twinge of sympathy for his former inspector, no matter the hateful things he had implied. The man seemed to be drowning, flailing, reaching for something in this exchange.

“Javert,” he said, as gently as possible, and reached out to lay a hand on top of the other’s, “are you well?”

Javert’s gaze dropped to their hands for a moment, puzzlement replacing ferocity for a moment, before he jerked his entire arm well out of reach. “My condition, Monsieur, is none of your concern.”

Valjean blinked, uncertain how to read the sudden change of tone and manner; rather than the bitter sarcasm that he had heard in the past, this was the nostalgic voice and address of an up-and-coming police inspector striving to simultaneously show respect and keep a proper distance between himself and his superior. Nearly a decade had passed since he’d heard that tone, but the memories it evoked were so fresh that he could nearly smell the wood paneling of the mairie. The look on Javert’s face, however, suggested that he had not noticed his own change in diction.

“Forgive me,” Valjean murmured, and noticed that his voice had also slipped into Madeleine’s slippery neutrality, though the cries of the day and the years of disuse left it a bit rougher than before.

“Hmph.” Javert slid both palms along his thighs, grasping his knees and rocking forward a bit. His eyes watched his fingers worry at the tops of his boots. “I had thought that -- well, but never mind. Thievery is no good. I attempted vandalism at the barricades today, now that I think of it, and not only was that uninteresting, it might possibly not be any kind of sin besides. Murder... let us not be crude. Perhaps fornication it shall be after all. I should have trusted my instincts. What do you say, Valjean? Care to accompany me to find a whore or two before it’s all over? I recall how often you used to walk the docks. Surely you must have some insights into the selection process, at the very least, and I have to admit that any -- suggestions -- you might have regarding the actual act itself would be of assistance. That is to say, if we are going to-”

This could not be permitted to continue. “Javert... Javert, peace. Javert, a moment, please. Javert.”

For a moment, it seemed as though his words would be insufficient to stifle the stream of language flowing from the other man’s cracked lips, but eventually the distraught policeman regained control of his words, raised his head and tilted it in Valjean’s direction. “Yes?”

“Inspector...”

“Yes?” His expression shifted from vacantly contemplative to scowling. _I do not like repeating myself_ , it said.

But Valjean could not keep from finally allowing himself to voice what had been increasingly clear since first he had opened the door. 

“... Are you quite mad?”


	3. Chapter 3

Javert's train of thought had been derailed, and he could not right it; his mind was caught on the rudeness of his host's statement.  He felt his eyes narrow at Valjean's impudence.

Of course, this was far from the first time he'd been accused of madness; he'd heard it for decades from men and women on both sides of the law.  Still, he had hoped that the ex-convict might have shared some of this clarity that came by the grace of one's end of days, and become empathetic to his plight, but it was apparent that death and prison could not be equated.  Javert's desperation had led to a form of enlightenment, but Valjean's clearly yielded only melancholy and an unmindful self-centeredness.  He wondered whether this strange feeling in his chest was pity, but decided it didn't matter.

"I am not," he said, keeping his voice level, as though he were talking to a moderately slow or obstinate child.  "I am quite rational, I assure you."  He tilted his head and smirked.  "What, Valjean, nothing to say on the subject of whores?  I  seem to remember a time when you were quite vocal on the topic."

It took the space of a breath or two for Valjean to absorb Javert's meaning, but the moment he did was clear: his hands trembled, clenched into fists, and then he stood up abruptly.

"Enough.  I have no idea what you are trying to do, Inspector, but this has been quite enough.  If you would be so kind as to take me to the police station, I am ready for this dreadful night to be over."  His tone was as level as Javert's had been, but where Javert's words had been underlined with tranquility, Valjean's were punctuated with suppressed pain and anger.

"Monsieur," said Javert blandly, leaning forward and steepling his fingers, resting his chin on their point, "despite your undoubtedly eventful day, you seem to have a surplus of energy at the moment.  I assure you, I intended no disrespect toward the mother of your daughter."  He paused and licked his lips, thinking for a moment of the bottle left in the kitchen.  "And no, I am not particularly inclined to be kind.  We will go to the police station when I am ready.  You found my offer that distasteful?  Please explain why."

Valjean blinked, and Javert sighed.  Apparently the other man had forgotten entirely the point of this conversation.

"Offer," said Valjean, with only the tiniest hint of a question in his voice.

"I," said Javert, drawing on reserves of patience that he had not known he possessed, "am going to go from here and find a whore, and partake of her wares.  This is something I have never tried, mind you, but when one has stared death down in the form of schoolboys playing with explosives, one begins to take stock of one's…" he searched for an appropriate word, one that would express his feelings without giving Valjean any notion of his final intentions; he had no desire to be saved again. "...history."

A long pause; the fireplace crackled its thoughts to the room.

"History?" echoed Valjean finally.

"I prefer conversation partners who make complete sentences," said Javert, with little malice.  It was quite astonishing what time had done to the revered Mayor Madeleine, who was a man of few words, but who could ever say the right thing when circumstances required it.  "The point is, I would be greatly appreciative of your assistance."

He realized belatedly that that may have sounded like a hint for a bribe, but fortunately such an insinuation was lost on a man as pure as Valjean, who simply shook his head, then took a deep, shaky breath.  "I don't understand what you are doing here, Javert."

How had this man managed to elude the law for all these years?  Surely Jean Valjean's luck of the devil must be an ironic sign of the existence of God, for if one extreme existed, so must the other.  He sat up straighter.  His time was more precious than it had ever been, and thus, he supposed, there was no point continuing to play coy.  "I have lived an irreproachable life, Jean Valjean," he said, "but today I realized that at any time it -- it could be the end, and during my trials today, I had the thought that a truly irreproachable life is a life not lived.  I would not be complete without one splash of color in this black and white world.  And I thought perhaps thievery might provide the hue I seek, but you have convinced me that such consequences are not worth any pleasure in the act, and so I am returning to my first idea, and going to fornicate.  I could have died today, man, and left this world with my virtue intact; I had never cared about it before, but while I may have devoted myself to what is right, I-- you are frowning now.  Why are you frowning?"

Valjean stood up with a slight wince, although the muscles in those strong legs moved smoothly, giving no sign of the strain they had borne that day.  "Javert, I -- I am going to bring the wine in here.  Please excuse me."

The man clearly had no place to question anyone else’s sanity.  And yet, the atmosphere of the room remained loose, more relaxed than he could have imagined.  He had to admit that he really did desire some company on this venture, and hoped Valjean could serve that purpose, or at the very least, offer advice for how to perform adequately when the time came.  He thought he'd seen a spark of something in the other man's eyes; perhaps such talk of sin had kindled the convict's lustful fire again after all these years.

Valjean returned with the goblets and bottle, filled them both, and handed one to Javert.  That look was still in his eyes.

"You mentioned consequences," he said, after waiting for Javert to take a sip.  "Have you not considered the consequences of spending an… an occasion with a lady of the evening?  The things I saw in my time as mayor... Many of those women in such a profession are there because they have suffered much and know no other way; more, many have diseases that may spread to you, even if they look healthy.  And my God!  What if you were to put the woman with child?  My daughter is the light of my life, of course, but...”

Concerns for the future or for the well-being of others meant nothing to a dead man like himself, but he could hardly protest such a thing to Valjean.  It didn’t matter anyway, because there was no stopping the protestations of the former mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer, patron saint of the downtrodden.  What was he thinking, seeking out such a man for advice on such a venture?  Perhaps everyone was right, and he was mad after all.  Javert took another draught of wine and waited for his quarry to finish.

“... but Monsieur Inspector... though morally suspect, a lady who kindles outside wedlock may seek forgiveness from God and society if she marries as soon as she knows; for a prostitute, however, it could mean the life of both the woman and the babe.  You may not be yourself right now, but surely...”  Valjean waved a hand aimlessly, then wiped his brow.  "Surely, even you..."

Javert looked up at the ceiling in exasperation.  He had no time to reminisce about the man he'd been before the Pont-au-Change.  “My time is precious, Mon-” he caught himself, and wondered how many times he’d made the slip, “- Valjean.  I suppose that if you will not help me, then I shall go on my own.  I must admit, though, that I am disappointed; I did not believe that the vaunted Man of Mercy would be so condescending in this matter, simply because he had the ladies of prestige throwing themselves alongside the whores during his time as mayor.  Surely you never wanted for the flesh of the fairer sex, but do you think all men are so blessed as the good Madeleine as to receive it in abundance, without paying a sou for it?”

Valjean shook his head emphatically.  "Of course not.  I-"

"Of course not!" Javert echoed.  "But I must admit that I thought better of you, that you might offer advice, not blandishments.  No matter my purpose here, I thought you would be grateful for the final chance to perform some charity work, and-"

"No!"  The strength of the former mayor's -- former convict's -- outburst seemed to startle them both, and Valjean took an audible breath before continuing.  "No.  What I meant was -- of course I haven't any of the sort of experience you are talking about."  He spoke flatly, with neither blush nor anger, in striking counterpoint to his tone mere words earlier.

Javert quirked an eyebrow, and Valjean trembled, his temporary composure visibly crumbling.  "Inspector, do you think that managing factories, governing a town, and maintaining a devout lifestyle, all under a counterfeit identity and while evading the perceptive and persistent eye of the law, leaves one with time to-" Valjean sputtered as though Javert had insinuated that the former mayor himself had been one of the ladies of the night.  The doomed policeman allowed himself a moment of mirth as he entertained the image for a moment -- so that was why the mayor had been on the wharf that night years ago! Wouldn't that broad chest, if bound in ribbons and lace, put to shame the bosoms of most of those consumptive waifs! -- then returned to listening to Jean Valjean make excuses for his apparent disinterest in intercourse.  "And for heaven's sake, after I left Montreuil, I was on the lam, and more importantly, raising a daughter; now, how could I possibly see women in such a light?"

Now a corner of Javert's mouth mirrored the motion of his brow.  "Plenty of fathers do," he replied.  "But then, most of them created the child in the first place.  It seems Jean Valjean never does anything the honest way."

Valjean's eyes narrowed, but Javert made a small conciliatory gesture, a slight chopping motion with one large and entirely steady hand.  "I meant nothing by that remark.  Simply an observation, and a bit of envy.”  That was a lie, but the Javert who had survived the barricades had realized that occasionally such small untruths kept discourse flowing. “Peace, man.  I never intended to insinuate that you disrespect women.  Even though we traded a life for a life today, and our debts are paid, I simply thought that you might, as I said, be feeling charitable enough to help guide your humble virgin spy in one more endeavor before- well."

"... well?"  The ex-convict's tendency to repeat what he had heard was truly an irritating trait.

"Before our acquaintanceship comes to an end," said Javert with asperity.  He had never any skill in defusing situations or mincing words.

And yet somehow, Valjean seemed calmer -- pensive, almost.  He frowned.  “Charity is my lifeblood, Javert, and it breaks my heart to have it taken from me, but what you’re asking, even were it not madness, is... out of my... my... I am telling you, I have never...”

Javert sent the older man a long, searching look over the rim of his wineglass, and realized that, though it was difficult to discern in the firelight, his cheeks were pink.  The ex-convict and former mayor was blushing as he proclaimed innocence of an entirely new sort.

And, for the first time, Javert believed him, believed that he himself was not the oldest untouched man in France after all.  After a brief moment contemplating the apparent fact, he found himself saying something that he had not been aware he was thinking. 

“Never.  Not even in Toulon?”

Even though they were at opposite ends of the sofa, Javert could feel Valjean’s body tense, and he could see his hand shake as he reached for his goblet.  “I don’t know what you mean by that,” he said.

“You lie,” said Javert, who had been expecting such a response, “although I do understand why.”  Now that the idea had crossed his mind, he could not deny so many old memories of his prison guard days, recalling the third option to whores and esteemed ladies that the brunt of imprisoned convicts had encountered at one point or another.

Valjean visibly flinched, and Javert knew that he had been correct.  The older man stood and went to stoke the fire, then spoke to the burning logs.  “That isn’t the same at all.  That is- you should not speak of it so lightly.  I am strong; I was safe, but so many others- such a terrible form of love, or- I should not use that word, even when there was affection.  Inspector... no matter what you saw, you cannot possibly understand.”  He turned back to Javert, and the room was brighter; he could see the blurring in Valjean’s eyes.

“I saw plenty,” murmured Javert, and did not think of his time as a guard, but of far earlier still.  “That is why I thought, no one with-” lips as red as yours could escape such attentions, he almost said, but caught himself.  Valjean’s lips were not so naturally red; he would have noticed.  They were merely dyed from the wine. “-with such a long history in the bagne could avoid being involved in... relations.”

“I avoided it before,” said Valjean, and walked back toward the sofa, but instead of sitting down, he turned and paced again toward the fireplace.  “But now I am going back, an older and more vulnerable man -- I can only pray that as age increases, desirability lessens -- so I hope you will forgive me if I should not wish to be reminded of such things.  I shall be again soon enough.”

He took a few more steps, fingers fumbling oddly and restlessly in front of him; after a moment, Javert realized that Valjean was fumbling with a prisoner’s beard that had not existed for years.  When he had left the parapet with the intent to sin, he had not intended to do so by causing another pain.  He felt a strange urge tug at his innards, and though he could not discern exactly what he was thinking, he let his instincts pull him to his feet, and he took long strides toward Valjean, who was now staring blankly at the ornate candlesticks on the mantle.

“Valjean,” he said softly, and the former convict turned and looked just enough over his own shoulder that Javert could again see those wine-stained lips.

He tilted his own head and leaned forward, pressing his own mouth to them, closing his eyes as soon as he was assured of accurate contact.  The touch was whisper-soft, and so was Valjean’s mouth, lax with shock, but when he pulled back the skin stuck and pulled a bit.  It made a sound that Javert had heard before, but never so near his ears.

Valjean’s eyes were wide in the firelight.  The muscles around his mouth twitched as though he wanted to speak, but had forgotten how to form words.  Eventually, his knowledge apparently returned, but his voice was husky and low, unable to properly intone a question.  “What did you do that for.”

He did not know.  “You are old and no longer desirable, and a man should not die unkissed.”

Valjean turned, and they stood eye to eye.  The expression on his face reflected not disgust, but a wild confusion.  “I have been kissed.  Cosette was a very affectionate child, and -- why, I still remember the first time, I was sitting in our home worrying about what had become of the dear people of Montreuil, and she saw me and said, Papa, do you feel like crying?  When I fall down you kiss where it hurts and make it better and I stop crying, that is what she said, and then-”

“You are a fool, Jean Valjean,” said Javert, who had been of the police long enough to read that this was a man who had suddenly had his bearings ripped away, and was attempting to cling to his senses with words.  “I hope you have never been kissed like this, then.”

He leaned forward once more, and though Valjean did not mirror the movement, his muscles shifted from near-flight to an expectant contrapposto, and his head angled in anticipation as Javert brought their mouths together.

Javert supposed that this moment would have been awkward without the -- how many glasses of wine had this been? He was not drunk by any means, but since he had entered Valjean's home, his overworked nerves had unmistakably shifted from heightened to almost numb. Such a descriptor at such a time should have been absurd, and yet it was the truth. Certainly, his heartbeat was pounding harder than it had been thirty seconds ago, and of course standing with his eyes closed resulted in instinctive tension, but considering he was sharing his first kiss with Jean Valjean -- a man, a convict, a saint! -- he would have expected to feel more than hot exhalations and sticky lips.

His instincts suggested after a long moment that he either pull back or try something besides holding Valjean’s lips captive; at the very least, he was going to need to breathe quite soon.  Pulling back seemed like a bad idea, though, since he had no desire to hear any further anecdotes about Valjean’s overly-fond relationship with his adopted daughter.  He did not need to hear any more of the young lady’s chaste, filial affections compared to this.  Instead, he inclined his head a little more, and Valjean’s lips dragged against his, pulling both mouths slightly open.

He was no fool; he knew how this act was supposed to progress, and that though he had not intended the development, he should not ignore the opportunity; he inhaled a quick, preparatory breath through his nose, then reached out with his tongue in a gesture of false assurance and tentative heart.

Though his eyes were closed, entering the hot, moist cavern of the other man’s mouth brought further depth to the darkness behind his eyes.  This unexplored territory was, frankly, quite unappealing, particularly when his tongue met Valjean’s, which his sense of touch informed him was rough, overly large, and covered in slime.  When Valjean made a noise of surprise and brought the creature in his mouth to startled, awkward life, the image in Javert’s mind did not become any more appealing.  

And then it did.  Too stubborn to give up on this sinful experience over the terror of novelty, Javert retracted his tongue, forced himself to relax, and tried again; after a moment, Valjean did the same.  Suddenly what had felt like a creature of horrors was now a slippery, warm caress, and a geyser of pleasure gushed from the pit of his stomach into the highest reaches of his chest, making his ears ring and his head spin.  Slowly, he overcame the details of the mechanics of kissing and began to enjoy the art, as utterly lacking in skill or finesse as it was.  More than once their teeth knocked or bit too hard; he pressed too deep and Valjean choked; Valjean reached up to clutch his hair and it hurt.  The reality of these details only made the act more sustainable.

As a memory to store in the warm pocket of his mind when he walked back to the Pont-au-Change, he thought, this clumsy moment would do.  And was, furthermore, undoubtedly superior to his original plan; he held far more confidence in Valjean’s hygiene than in that of a woman of the night’s.  Yesterday’s Javert would have found everything about such thoughts humiliating and shameful, but with nothing left to lose, he was pleased to have hesitated at the parapet and chosen to pursue this brief reprieve at the home of this man.

Taking a moment to breathe, panting hot breaths in the other’s ear, he murmured, “Now you will not die unkissed, and will ever know how truly abhorrent and base an act it is.”

“Thank you, Inspector,” Valjean muttered, pulling back and meeting Javert’s gaze; his usually soft eyes held a hint of cornered animal in their depths, but his voice was calm.  “It is dreadful.”  And then their mouths met again.

This sort of wanton kissing may have been base, abhorrent, and dreadful, but it was apparently not off-putting; he was most certainly not having the problem that he had feared arising -- or not, as it were -- in the company of a woman.  Perhaps more importantly, so long as he was interpreting the responding pressure correctly, Valjean was similarly untroubled.  It was almost unbelievable that it had taken him so long to draw such a conclusion to this quest of last-chance debauchery.

When next he pulled his mouth away from Valjean’s, this time laying his head on the other man’s shoulders and nipping at his neck in between gasps, he murmured his solution to himself.  “It’s so simple,” he said.  “Sodomy.”

His partner in this new experience froze, even as Javert continued licking the soft skin behind his ear.  It was an unexpectedly delicious treat.

“...What?” said Jean Valjean.


	4. Chapter 4

“Sodomy.”  An arch look.  “You do know what that is, do you not, Jean Valjean?”

This was happening.

He was... Javert was... This was...

The inspector, apparently unwilling to wait for an answer, returned to sucking on Valjean's neck, palming roughly up and down Valjean's crotch, and he'd never felt anything like it, wasn't sure if he liked it.  This.  Whatever this was.

Whatever this was, his body was burning in shame and passion, burning like the flames of hell, like --

\-- like he was standing in front of the fireplace, and on the verge of scorching through his breeches.

"Javert," he said awkwardly.  The other man nosed into his hair and softly moaned his name back.  That was not what was supposed to happen.  "Javert," he said again, more insistently, but Javert merely grunted and curled his fingers as best he could around Valjean's cock.  Valjean sucked in his breath roughly.

"It is -- no, it's too hot, Javert, you must stop," he said, cringing inwardly at the whine his voice had become.

"Not done yet -- we're just starting," the possibly-deranged inspector purred back, pulling and stroking harder.  In other circumstances it may have been quite pleasing, a heaven indeed, but the flames were hotter still.

Valjean shoved his unexpected suitor away and stepped them both away from the fire.  "Literally, Javert; don't you understand fireplaces?"

Javert blinked, and the dull haze that had come over his eyes seemed to clear, at least minutely.  “I - Valjean?”

A strange feeling of deja vu washed over Valjean’s senses, and after a moment he realized that this was the expression the police spy had first worn when he’d apparently recognized his former quarry at the barricades.  There was a definite sense of _I know you -- oh, if it isn’t that damnable ex-convict fellow!_ , combined with a hearty dose of trauma and terror.

This was entirely inappropriate.  He should not be standing there in front of the fireplace at all, not kissing this man with such unholy passion, not regretting changing into old trousers after the extensive bath after the sewers, because even though he had thought they would only be lost after he was processed into prison life once more, now he worried that his prick was going to tear through the worn fabric.  

What was he doing?  While he had never known or craved woman’s touch, he had always assumed that it was because he had other priorities, never truly considered that his body would respond so blindly to a stubbled jaw and hands larger than his own.  Having seen men do terrible things to each other in Toulon, it had never crossed his mind that such contact might actually be --

\-- but was it the fact that it was a man causing these feelings, was it this man in particular, or was the problem that he was affected by anyone of any gender?  It was a very new and very unsettling feeling to find himself in such a situation.  Perhaps he’d just had too much wine, or the sewers had gone to his head.  No matter how he considered it, his response was as entirely unnatural as his former jailer’s behavior.

Javert now was standing straight, several steps back, shoulders squared and hands clasped behind his back.  He took a deep breath, filling out his chest.

“...I seem to have misjudged you, Monsieur.”  His eyes flickered down, and Valjean felt himself reflexively tilt his pelvis back, as though he could possibly hide his physical response to this unprecedented experience.  “I think- yes, I do believe- I have infringed on your hospitality for far too long.  If you’ll excuse me, I have a resignation note to compose.”

The inspector turned heel-toe, hands still behind his back, and walked in the direction of the entrance, grabbing the bottle of wine by the neck as he passed it.

_Resignation note?_

Valjean took a few wobbly steps forward.  “Wait, Javert,” he found himself calling, despite the feeble protests of his oft-ignored self-preservation instinct, “should I be going with you?  I am to be arrested.  Is that not what you came here for?”

Javert paused, cast a strangely wary look over his shoulder, and sighed.  “No.  No, it was not, Jean Valjean.  You saved my life, and that boy’s as well, and your daughter’s, and the whole damned town of Montreuil-sur-Mer, at least temporarily.  Locking you up would be a greater sin than any I intended to commit tonight.”  He looked momentarily thoughtful, then turned back toward the door, his next words nearly inaudible.  “Or nearly any.”

He considered the inspector’s words as he listened to him rustling in the entryway for his hat.  For a moment, he nearly called out, but thought just in time of his daughter fast asleep upstairs, innocent to the debauchery her father had nearly let himself become party to.  God in heaven, what if Cosette had walked downstairs?

Every part of his being told him that he should let Javert walk out the door, that he should go alone upstairs to his own bedroom and get some much-needed rest, and dream of the delight that would spread across his daughter’s face when he informed her of her beloved’s safety.  He very nearly let the other man leave.  No matter what was wrong with the inspector, he had to take care of his child first.

But as he heard the creak of the door, another thought suddenly flooded his mind: the smile he was anticipating was not for himself, but over the Pontmercy boy, and that boy would be getting all of Cosette’s smiles very soon, all of her love, and -- provided he lived -- they would be married, and the two of them would love each other in ways that her father would never understand.  Cosette was going to outgrow her innocent fool of a father in all areas.

Valjean made it to the entryway just in time to see the door closing behind the departing figure, but, even as exhausted as he was, his reflexes had never let him down; his hand shot out and wrapped around the edge, catching it before it could latch, and he called out into the outside air.  “Javert!”

Javert had the fingertips of one hand on the knob; the other, still holding the wine bottle, was adjusting his hat against the wind that arose at dawning.  He turned to face Valjean with evident surprise.  “What?  You’re free, Jean Valjean.  Go to bed.  I bid you farewell, and goodnight.  From tonight, you will see no more of Javert.”

Something about those words sent a further chill into the pit of Valjean’s stomach, and he found himself handling this problem with the tool that had benefited him so reliably over the years: brute force.  He curled a broad fist into Javert’s lapel, hauled him bodily back into the house, and pressed their lips together again.  He still wasn’t sure what he thought about the act of kissing itself, but he had come to realize that it certainly delivered a powerful message.

Gently, he let the door fall back closed, guiding it over the latch with one hand while keeping the other fisted in the other man’s jacket; once the door was shut, he placed his free hand on the wall at approximately head-level, allowing him to lean in with better balance.  

Before, Javert had led the kissing, but this time, Valjean was in control; even though at first the inspector kept his narrow lips drawn tight, the other man was persistent, and after a few moments, the kiss was as passionate as any that had come before.  Slowly, the fist in Javert’s lapel loosened, and worked its way down between his legs, feeling the bulge there strengthen and press against his palm.

Javert gasped into his mouth, and with his free hand found where Valjean’s curled hair met his nape.  He began stroking it absently while he attempted to rub his side with the other hand, wine bottle along for the moment.  Fearing a stain on his waistcoat that he would have to explain to either Touissant or Cosette, Valjean broke the kiss for a moment, brought his hands back to himself, and confiscated the bottle from the other man.  Javert scrubbed across his own face with his forearm.

“You fool,” he said.  “Why?”

Valjean set the bottle down beneath the coat rack, then straightened and gave Javert a long, level look.  “A man should not die untouched,” he said. 

The words seemed to strike something; a slow smirk crossed Javert’s face, and he leaned forward once more.  “Do you honestly believe that to be true?”  He reached out his fingertips and ran them down Valjean’s sleeve.

“Not before today,” he admitted in a whisper.  This had the potential to become the second-greatest mistake of his life.  “But...”  He gracefully dodged an incoming kiss, allowed the inspector access to his jaw.  Being gnawed and sucked upon was a sticky sensation that caused his guts to twist, but he ignored it for the time being.  “We cannot continue this here.  My daughter, Cosette... if she heard... my room is simple, but much more private, Javert.”  The last word came breathlessly, as the other man ran his hands down from his shoulders, over his chest, and then around to his backside, pulling their bodies close.

He wondered if this was something normal, if this was happening in a way that others might find familiar, or whether this genuinely was debauchery, sinful, wrong, even as far as whatever rules of sodomy may have existed.  With no prior experience to compare it to between them, how could either he or this man be certain that they were doing everything right?

Javert’s warm, wine-scented breath in his ear informed him that he had spoken at least some of his fears aloud.  “Does it matter?  We have nothing left to lose.  There is no right left in this upside-down world anyway.”  His tongue shaped the words more emphatically than was necessary, and Valjean shivered.  Like kissing, it was wet and strange.

He could think of only one thing to move this awkward impasse forward.  “Then come to my room,” he said, gently removing one of Javert’s hands from around his waist.  “Let us try to put things to order again.”

\--

Valjean had never had a guest in his rooms, but he had the vague sense that he should be embarrassed at the thoroughly spartan furnishings the candles illuminated.  “I -- try to live a life free of-- material-”

Javert looked at him askance.  “Do I look as though I expected you to keep a brothel in your backyard?”

Had Javert always such a fixation upon prostitutes?  “...No, you do not.  Why would you think of such a thing?”

It would not be appropriate to term Javert’s exasperated huff as fond, but even Valjean could tell that there was no edge of malice to it, or even true disdain.  “I expected nothing less from your quarters -- except, perhaps, I thought you might have a stove; we are certainly lucky that it is summer,” he said, as if that explained anything.  

Valjean apparently still looked blank, as a hint of a smile curled at the inspector’s lips, and he continued, “I may not have experience bedding prostitutes, but I have certainly --” _arrested them_ , echoed silently in Valjean’s ears, and Javert’s expression suggested that he realized that he was headed toward a poor choice of words, “--been in brothels in the line of duty, and I must admit, despite everything I have said today, I am glad this is certainly not one.”

The onetime mayor smiled, not knowing what to say to such a statement.  Javert approached him again, now-familiar look of daring defiance reflecting in his eyes, and then long arms looped over Valjean’s shoulders.  He felt his eyes flutter closed, and wondered what sort of strange instinct was built inside man to make him desire to be even more vulnerable at such a dangerous moment.  God truly worked in mysterious ways.

As though reading his mind, or at least reading his faith, Javert murmured in his ear once more, his voice sliding over every nerve.  “I do not want you to do anything you will regret.  I do not want you to struggle as I have tonight.  Tell me what you will accept.”

The wording of the question was odd, but somehow, he had a sense that this was as solicitous as the good inspector would ever be.  Keeping his eyes closed, his mouth formed the words blindly.  “I do not know.  What do you want, Javert?”

“What do you want?” the other man echoed, voice nearly at normal volume, and Valjean reflexively shushed him.  There was a long silence, and when Valjean eventually opened his eyes, all he could see were Javert’s dark pupils staring him down.  When the other man spoke again, his voice was lower, huskier, demanding.

“Oh, Valjean, I want to sin; I want to Sin; I want to do everything the Word says I shouldn’t.  I want to lay with you as if you were a woman; I want to spill my seed upon the ground; I want... but what I want is inconsequential.  I am serious, do tell me, for I shan’t ask again: what do you want, Jean Valjean?”

Valjean wondered if his eyes were as dark as Javert’s.  It was not just the dim candlelight; he was certain of that.  He was also certain that neither his chest nor his trousers had ever felt like this before.

He took a long time to think of how to respond, staring at the ground and feeling the heat of Javert’s patiently imperative gaze.  “I want... to try,” he said, still looking at his feet.  “But I don’t know what to do.”

A rough hand came under his chin and lifted.  “Liar,” said its owner, still in that vaguely affectionate tone.  “You may not have participated in it in prison, but even I knew what went on in the salles by the end of my first week of duty.”

Pause.  “That was sin, but there was no love in it.”

“Nor does this.”

“Perhaps not.  But this is still closer.”

“... Perhaps.  If that pleases you to believe.”

He took a moment to reflect, and realized that it did.  Not in the romantic sense, though; Valjean suspected that the experience of such a feeling would be forever beyond him.  Rather, he knew that what happened between men in the bagne lacked any sense of God’s children sharing His love with one another, and it was clear that, regardless of his protests and wild claims of desiring sin and sodomy, such love was exactly what Javert needed to put him back on his path.

While Valjean reflected, Javert took to his knees.

He was ashamed to admit even to himself that he knew exactly what such a move implicated; he suddenly was impossibly lightheaded, and his voice slipped to a whimper.  “Javert, wait, that’s too-- you should not--”

But those searching hands at his buttons would not be denied.


	5. Chapter 5

Javert was not unfamiliar with his own body; he had lived in it for over half a century, and in that time, had become fairly well acquainted with it, including, shamefully, his own private parts.  He knew himself soft; he knew himself hard; he knew from his time in Toulon and on the police force that he was not so different from any other man.

It did not stand to reason that he would feel so nervous unfastening Jean Valjean’s trousers and sliding his drawers down his thighs, the motion smooth despite his trembling hands.

“Ja-” Valjean choked, having put aside his protests, but Javert could give neither attention nor time to the man, nor, truthfully, to his organ; he could not waste his focus wondering how it compared to its own, taking in the size or the color, or analyzing the density of the surrounding silvery hair, or he would lose his nerve entirely.  He gripped it gently, and though the breadth was new, the firming flesh under loose, satiny skin did not strike him as anything outside his knowledge.

Again, it made no sense that it would feel so different when he touched the side of the prick with his lips instead of his fingertips, and yet every sensation felt magnified ten times.  He could sense every minute change in hardness, every wrinkle and vein shifting.  He tried not to imagine, if this experience was so different in intensity from his perspective, how it must feel to Valjean.

As if he could hear his thoughts, Jean Valjean moaned low in his throat, then higher as Javert slid his tongue along the shaft and around the head.  The taste was not abhorrent -- not much at all, really, or at least unable to compete with the lingering red wine -- and for a moment Javert remembered the sewers and thanked the God he was questioning that apparently, Valjean had washed long and thoroughly after his trek through the underground of Paris.  Dimly, he realized that the other man seemed to be chanting his name through his moans, and he felt a renewed surge of warmth in his lower belly as he captured the tip between his lips in a slow kiss, his hands restlessly caressing trembling hips as Valjean ran his fingers through his hair around his ears.

When he pulled back for a breath, it made a sound not unlike when they had parted from more standard kissing, and he smiled a little to himself.  This was more like what he was expecting from sin.  Above him, Valjean was breathing heavily, still making noises that sounded like the syllables of his own name, mixed in with meaningless gasps.

Pleased, Javert took a moment to listen and appreciate, absently nibbling little pecks up and down while focusing his attention on Valjean’s noises.  He had never heard his name sound so beautiful.  And then the meaningless gasps took form.

“Javert... Javert, please, please wait, please, a moment... Javert, _listen to me_ -”

Of course he had caught Valjean’s similar protest before beginning this depraved and wonderful act, but he had presumed it mere formality.  He had assumed that by now, the pleasure should have eliminated any sense of such propriety, which... could only mean that Valjean was not enjoying himself as much as his throbbing cock would seem to indicate.

He looked up; Valjean looked back down at him, flushed and glassy-eyed.

“You dislike this,” said Javert, unfocused anger coloring his tone, looking back at the man’s prick instead of at that indecipherable, kind gaze.  A pity.  As his own pulsing erection could attest, he was not finding this perversion distasteful in the slightest.

In response, Valjean bent his knees slightly, easily, despite the trousers strangling his thighs, and slid two powerful hands under Javert’s armpits; the inspector had no choice but to take to his feet.  The shattering of what had been an ecstatic moment left him dizzy, but it was inconsequential, because Jean Valjean was now wrapping those strong arms around him tightly, embracing him in an unbreakable hold, mindless of his bared body trapped between them.  The older man brought one hand up to the back of his neck, and Javert had no choice but to relax enough to lower his head to Valjean’s shoulder.

For the first time, he felt Valjean’s lips press against his own neck, gently, not in lust but like the parent of a child seeking comfort.  In a way, it was perhaps more obscene than anything Javert could have created in his mind at the height of his quest to die deflowered and besmirched.

“I have never imagined anything could feel like that,” Valjean whispered in his ear, gripping him even more determinedly.  As if confirming the truth of this statement, his bare hips rocked almost imperceptibly against Javert’s clothed ones, though he seemed utterly unaware of this movement.  “But, Javert, I cannot allow this if you think -- I cannot take part in your damnation, if that is what you truly are seeking.”  His breathing was still unsteady, but his words were calm.

Curse the man.  How could he know?  The part of Javert’s mind that still clung to the river suddenly demanded that he extract himself from this embrace and run back to the Pont au Change, that his lustful thoughts and actions -- featuring another man, no less! -- should be enough to satisfy any foolish curiosities he’d had about the nature of sin, and the morning was coming on fast.  But ever since he’d come to Valjean’s room, that voice had begun seeming more and more pathetic and unlike himself in its blind desperation.

Still.  “I am already damned,” he muttered.  “Do not concern yourself with my soul, Monsieur.  It is only my body I am offering you, and you seem wanting to accept.”

“I have accepted both, you fool,” came a harsh growl in his ear, and he jerked back as far as he could in the grip of those unyielding hands.

“Then- why-”  Javert felt his face contort in rage and disgust.  “I did not come here for you to save me, Jean Valjean.”

The breath was softer this time.  “God works in-”

“Spare me.”

“It is true.”

“How can you believe such a thing, after what you saw today?”  God had let gamin die on the barricade before they could have even tried to escape the streets; God had let schoolboys sacrifice themselves before they could truly become men.

“How can I not, after the life I have led?”  Now the hand at the back of his neck moved upward to stroke his hair.

Javert felt himself tremble, and realized with horror that he was about to break again, this time in front of this man.  “I despise your world and your God and-” _you_ , he wanted to say, but his voice caught on a sob in his throat.

Valjean chuckled, and in that moment Javert could tell that he truly had become more than a mere guardian to that poor little girl; he had never heard a sound more fatherly.  He had no doubts that Valjean had understood how his sentence was intended to end.

Javert refused to let himself crumble, though his body and breath trembled with something besides lust.  Long seconds passed as he waited to regain some semblance of composure.

"You were fine with this a moment ago," he accused at length, his voice steady but lacking venom as the other man continued to kiss softly into his neck, right where the rope had bound him hours ago.  Both his hands were being held by the other man's, Valjean's thumbs stroking along Javert's wrists, which were also rope-burned and sensitive.  Damn the man for being so gentle and soothing, driving his breath faster and faster, slowly reviving the feelings that had cooled in his temporary devastation.

"I apologize," Valjean murmured.  "But I do not think you understand the difference between sin and damnation, Javert, and while God's love forgives the former, if you believe this is the latter…"

Javert swallowed hard and attempted to clear his mind.  It made things both better and worse to reach down and grab the other man's exposed cock.  Like Javert’s, it was not as hard as it had been moments ago, but it had not yet lost interest.  "You do not think you will go to Hell for this?" he asked as Valjean let out a puff of air and a small whine against his shoulder.

"Not- not necessarily, not any more than any others who find pleasures of the flesh.  I believe Heaven would be a lonely place if- Javert, you never were able to wait and listen."  A caring but firm hand removed Javert's from Valjean's length, placing it instead on the small of the older man's back, then half-hiking up his trousers.  "I want you to listen.  I am as terrified as you are."

"How dare you assume," Javert began, then thought better of it and pulled the man closer, catching his lips again, waiting for a recoil that did not come.  "Assume that I-"

The next thing he knew, his feet were off the ground, and he was being carried to Valjean's narrow bed, and dropped upon it unceremoniously.  Before he could push himself away, though, Valjean had joined him, and was using his bulk to pull both of them down, lying entangled.

“I do not think this is how it is done,” grumbled Javert, noting that Valjean’s drawers were back up, and his trousers, though unbuttoned, were back to their original position over his hips and buttocks.  Pity, that.  

“I want to tell you a story before anything more happens,” came a low voice in his ear as those clothed legs entwined further with his own.  “It means very much to me.”

Javert sighed, though he found a comfortable place under the other man’s neck to nestle his head.  He did not feel like kissing anymore, but he figured this contact too was… something.  Nevertheless, he felt obligated to voice his displeasure.  “I knew I should have found a whore, as I am quite sure they do not waste time with stories.  I would have lost my virginity three times over by now.”

Valjean twined his fingers in Javert’s hair where it met his neck.  “A… woman of the night… has a price, and so do I.  Do you accept it?”

The price was a story.  The man truly had no concept of money; perhaps all those years ago, he’d thought a story would negate his thievery.  Javert snorted, but nodded his assent into Valjean’s broad shoulder.  Words were free, at least, although he recalled that he would likely soon have no need for money anymore.

“Once upon a time,” Valjean murmured, then stopped.  Javert could feel his smile against his brow.  “Forgive me; that is how I used to begin all my stories to Cosette.  I do not mean to treat you like a child.”

“I should hope not.”  The worrywart fool.  “Do go on.”

“There was a man on parole,” said Jean Valjean.  “He had been imprisoned for being a thief, even though at the time, his heart was simply desperate, and desperate hearts do foolish things.  Once on parole, though, he was not himself anymore, and as the world rejected a man who, as a boy, was looked upon fondly, his heart hardened evermore, or so he thought.  Even when a great man of God showed him pity, he took advantage of that man and stole his precious goods.”  There was a soothing rhythm to this story, as though Valjean had been rehearsing it in his head for a long time, though surely not for Javert’s sake.

“And he used those goods to become the mayor of a struggling town, and now he believes that all sins can be forgiven by good work, is that it?  I am not going to volunteer with orphans or anything of that ilk, Valjean.”

“No,” replied Valjean, and continued his story as though Javert had not spoken in his ear.  “The man presumed that because he was already a thief, it did not matter what he did thereafter.  Instead, he was caught, but instead of returning the man to end his miserable days in prison, his victim made a gift of the silver, and then some, buying his soul with a pair of candlesticks and some plates and cutlery, and from there, the man was reborn.  That gift saved a town, and saved a precious little girl.  It made a changed man of me.”

“Of the man, rather,” Javert smirked into Valjean’s shoulder.

“I am a horrid storyteller,” Valjean acknowledged brightly.  “Cosette always told me so as well.  But I mean to tell you that when I was at my lowest point, beyond salvation, and thought that the world had given me but one way to fall, God intervened in man’s form, giving me what I wanted and more so that I could understand that there are greater things on earth than small sins, of covetousness or of the flesh.  And Javert, I fear that you feel you have but one way to fall now.”

“Valjean.”  Javert disentangled himself from the other man and sat up.  “If this story does not end with sodomy, I may as well just-”

“It ends with whatever you want, and more.  Thank you for listening, Javert.  Your price has now been paid, and I am yours.”  Valjean leaned back against the pillow with a small smile.

Javert frowned.  “I was not listening.  I was simply being quiet while you spoke, which is mere politeness.”

“That is good enough.  So.”  The large man stretched, and though he did not touch any part of Javert’s body, his firm, warm gaze and continued smile made Javert feel the most vulnerable he had been that night.  His erection had faded somewhat, and at that look, he felt his involuntary reactions struggle to decide whether to respond positively or negatively to the gentle but intense scrutiny.  “What do you want?”

He had already answered that.  “You know.”

“Still?”

“Still.”  A pause.  “And one more thing.  I want your honesty, Jean Valjean.”

Vajean blinked, and Javert felt palpable relief at the breaking of that gaze.  “I have been nothing but honest with you.”

“You have invited me into your bed to give me all I want and then some.  You should not care enough about me for your purpose to be to save my soul; I have done nothing but dog you for twenty years.  You thought I was coming to arrest you, and by God, I should have.  Now you volunteer to commit a sin that you do not truly want, all for my desire to test my boundaries of obedience?”

“Did I say I did not want it?”

“You pushed me away while I was sucking your prick!  Though I have never had it done to me, I have heard more men say that that is one of the ultimate pleasures, to be sought without regard for reason or decency, and yet -- was I that poor in the act?”  Javert curled his fists without realizing it.  There seemed to be no mood left in the moment.  All he could think now was of escape, back to the river.  The windows were shuttered, so he could only hope that daylight was not too far along for him to have his moment in peace.

“Javert.”  Suddenly, there were two hands on his shoulders, pushing him back against the bed.  “I have spent decades strengthening my will.  And yet that-” Valjean’s face contorted briefly, as though he wanted to say the words, but could not bring himself to do so, “-was one of the most difficult things I have ever done.”

His white brows lifted, and those lovely dark eyes widened.  “Shall I show you?”

Javert was no longer painfully hard, but as Jean Valjean moved of his own volition down his body, unfastening his trousers with almost unbelievable dexterity, he could feel his uncontrollable responses begin to take over, his body returning to its previous condition.  Valjean was not content to merely push his trousers to his knees, either: he climbed off the bed, knelt on the floor, and divested every last bit of clothing from Javert’s waist down.

The cold air hit Javert’s bare flesh with a shock, but a pleasant one, and he could particularly feel the tiny currents on the very tip of his cock.  He smiled despite himself -- a real smile, of enjoyment rather than rabid victory.  It was an even odder sensation than being half-bare in Jean Valjean’s bed.

And even more strangely yet, Valjean smiled back.  Javert was unused to having his expressions returned.  It was not necessarily a warm feeling.

After but a moment, both smiles faded, and Valjean’s eyes took on a much more serious cast.  The older man bent forward, placed both hands on the edge of the bed, leaned down, and then looked up again, meeting Javert’s gaze once more.  His face was pale.

“Forgive me, Javert, I… do not want to…”

“Then don’t,” Javert snapped, feeling his face take on the color that Valjean’s had lost.  “I never asked you to.”

“I do not want to do this wrong,” Valjean finished, but apparently Javert’s nervous indignation had sparked something, for he gripped the shaft, closed his eyes, lowered his head once more, and kissed just below the tip, softly, then a little harder, open-mouthed, with tongue.

It was wet and awkward and Valjean’s grip was too tight, but it was sweeter than their first kiss, perhaps because the location and body parts themselves were revolting enough that the addition of a little pressure and saliva could not make things worse.  For one of the first times in his life, Javert had lost his words, and could only groan in a futile attempt to keep his head attached to his shoulders.  Stroking Valjean’s soft hair, he wondered if there was really no way to do this wrong.

This pondering was quickly put to rest when Valjean attempted a gentle nip.  “No,” said Javert, half-unaware that he had even spoken.  “And too tight, your hand, it’s too tight.”

But aside from that, it was Heaven.  His leather stock began to constrict his throat as he arched back, breathing heavier and faster, and his fingers went up to clutch at it in vain.  He attempted to cry out, but was strangled both by the stock and by his own passion.

And then Valjean’s mouth was gone.  Javert opened his eyes, unaware he’d even closed them. He heard himself make a small noise of confusion.

Jean Valjean was stripping himself of his own clothes, top to bottom.  Still confused, Javert followed his lead, ridding himself of the clothing on his torso.  Old, exhausted, and sagging, Valjean's body nonetheless held the perfection of an Atlas, and for a fleeting moment Javert wondered who he had ever tried to fool thinking that a whore’s form would capture his interest.

“I have given you more than you asked for,” whispered Valjean, moving back toward the bed.  “Now I shall give you what you want.  If that is still what you desire?”

Javert could dimly remember what he had answered before, the kinds of sins that had crossed his mind and lips; his eyes widened and his cock pulsed at the thoughts of what he had requested, and how he and Valjean might bring such vices into existence.

“Let’s find out,” he said.  “Let’s find out how the story ends this time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What was going to be an ending has expanded into at least another chapter and a half. Thank you for your patience. <3


	6. Chapter 6

Even stripped bare, the feared inspector Javert would ever be a mystery to Jean Valjean.

Who was in control of this encounter?  He would have sworn, were he a swearing sort, that this all was at the younger man's behest, but right now, he was atop the inspector, straddling his knees, kissing his collarbone, rubbing his fingers over his chest, allowing the secret places of their anatomies to brush against one another, and Javert was simply lying back and taking it, eyes closed and neck arched as though he were a cat lounging in sunlight. Even his hands were still at his sides, slightly away from his torso, spread against the bedsheets like wings at rest, just waiting to be touched.  Every so often he would grunt, usually when Valjean's hands or mouth slowed, but that was all the reaction he received.

And Valjean had to admit, he wanted to touch.  He wanted these sensations; a hunger raged through his veins, and he felt as though he were taking his first breath outside Toulon, yellow papers in hand, everything new and clean and good.

Javert had been there back then too, but while once this memory might have inspired bitterness, now the parallel set warmth throughout his chest.  Though superficially, the inspector's body was worked up and occasionally writhing in passion, he had never felt the man's energy, his soul, to be so relaxed.  Considering that when he'd entered Valjean's home, he seemed as though his spirit was primed to explode, it was a welcome relief.

"This is good?" asked Valjean.  Javert's eyes fluttered open, and he gave a disgruntled snort.

"You talk too much," he intoned, then, finally, reached up and slid his hands over Valjean's face, then down his back, massaging over the old lash tracks with no visible change of expression.  "Of course it is good. You are Jean Valjean.  You may be a convicted felon who broke parole, but somehow, all you do is good.”

Jean Valjean shook his head. "I have my failures. Many of them," he whispered sadly, and Javert slid his touch from back to front, threading through thick silvering hair to pinch harshly at the older man's nipples. Valjean gasped as the dark thoughts fled from his mind, to be replaced by surprise, interest, and a sharp pain that sent a jolt of pleasure down to his toes.

"I will not let this be one of them," the inspector growled. "Stay with me.  Focus." Pause. "I am... not disliking this."

"I did not dislike that either," echoed Jean Valjean. He had not known how many places a man could experience pleasure through touch; he had known little touch in his life. Javert licked his lips and ran his hands through the hair on Valjean's chest again. "But... is this what you want?"

A strange fog had clouded Javert's eyes. He nodded, then shook his head. "Your mouth. Give me your mouth again. Please."

That was not what he had asked for previously, but Valjean was more than willing to oblige; for some reason, Javert's polite moments had always warmed his soul, and now was no exception.  Wordlessly, he slid back down the other man’s body, making sure that his body and chest also rubbed against Javert’s manhood before his mouth reached its destination.  Javert gasped and groaned the whole way down, and more than a few times, Valjean caught the sounds of his name -- his own name, his original one, the one Cosette did not even know -- and that made him close his eyes and hum in pleasure as well.

Holding a man’s firm, thick prick between his lips was a strange sensation, sucking upward and licking downward strained his already-sore neck, and crouching at the foot of the bed like this was not exactly comfortable, but when he glanced up, he saw that what had originally been relaxation in Javert’s face had turned to joy, saw the peace underlying the ecstasy in that expression that had once spoken only of a tortured soul, felt the gentle but shaking fingers stroke through his hair.  There was a smile on those thin lips that was not a grimace or a snarl. He thought he might be able to continue giving these sensations forever.

“Stop,” groaned Javert after a time.  “I do not want this.”

For an embarrassing moment, the words did not make sense in Valjean’s ears, but once they did, he pulled off immediately, and coughed a little.  “Are you-”

Javert took a moment to make words through his panting.  “I will finish if you do not let me go.”

Valjean felt a thrill through his body at the thought of Javert completing his pleasure in this act; despite everything, he had not truly given thought to how this experience would end.  “Do not hold back for me,” he said, but Javert’s hands twisted in his hair.

“No, I- I wanted something more than this.  Valjean, tell me, what was it I wanted?  It is your fault I cannot think; surely you must remember.”

He did.  “You wanted to sin,” he said, in a tone that was clear that he did not consider this moment sinful, but was willing to indulge Javert’s fantasies.

The other man frowned.  “I wanted to Sin,” he said forcefully, regaining his breath.  “I wanted to -- yes, that’s right.  Fornication, sodomy, to lie with a man, to spill seed, Valjean, you will give me all of it.”

“Anything,” said Jean Valjean.

“Do it.  You know what to do.  Nineteen years, you must have seen-”

Valjean refused to let thoughts of Toulon break this moment.  “I saw nothing that would help us here.”

“Do it to me, Valjean.  I know you know how,” Javert insisted, thrashing until he was sitting half-upright, disheveled and flushed.

There was a part of Valjean that rejoiced at the thought.  No matter what he claimed, he did know the ways that men in the salle came together, and he had no doubt that he could attempt such acts upon Javert’s willing form.  That part of him wanted desperately to try.

But the stronger part of his mind knew that what Javert was asking now was not how he had previously said he wanted to do this, and he was determined to uphold that request to the letter; Javert had stated quite clearly that he would lie with Valjean as though the latter were a woman, and if Valjean did what that terrible part of him ached to, it would be all wrong.  He feared how this would end were Javert’s needs -- the needs he had identified in a clearer (if not more rational) state of mind -- not satisfied completely.

And besides -- ah, but Valjean had his own motives in this situation as well.  He wanted a man above him.  He wanted to play the woman’s role for Javert, wanted to know if there would be fear, if there would be pain, if he should take his daughter and run with her from the prospect of marriage, put her back in the convent, perhaps, and keep her safe for always.  Because he was a man, he knew it would be not quite the same, but close enough to give him an idea of what his precious little girl would experience on her wedding night.  He needed to know.

He could never tell these things to Javert, of course; he hardly wanted to admit these motives to himself.  He did not consider himself womanish; he simply considered himself a devoted father.

He also knew that it was probably inappropriate to be thinking so much of his little girl with Javert sitting up, legs spreading, reaching toward his cock.  In that moment, it was simple to put Cosette out of his mind.

“Do it to me, Jean Valjean,” he said again, and Valjean shivered at the flat, mindless lust in the other’s tone.

Instead, Valjean clasped Javert by the shoulders and pushed him back flat on the bed, slung a powerful leg over him, then rolled the two of them over so that the policeman was on top.

“That is not what you asked for,” said Valjean, his voice low and soft.  “It will happen this way.”  His arms around the other man’s bare shoulders, he could feel the nervous shudder run through his body, and he ran his calloused hands from shoulderblades to the curve of his rear.

When his hands curved just a bit farther, Javert's hips bucked, seemingly reflexively, and his cock drove into the hollow between Valjean's thighs, his belly rubbing against the head of Valjean's own upright prick.  Javert gasped, and Valjean threw back his head and groaned at the contact.

Once they could both meet the other's eyes again, it was clear that they had both obtained the same knowledge and idea.

"In prison I know they put it-- inside.  The guards hear all, and we are not stupid.  But I shan't put it inside you," Javert muttered, unusual for a man who had always been proud of being able to say anything in a confident tone.  "I do not know how, and I do not think your heart could take it.  You are a very old man who has had a very hard day."  He took a moment to swallow hard; Valjean watched his Adam's apple bob with extreme interest.  "And besides, I would not do such a thing to a woman anyway."

"Indeed," Valjean murmured back, reaching up to run his fingers through Javert's sweaty hair, knowing by now that Javert would not do anything to a woman.  "So what will you do?"

He knew the answer; they both did.  Javert pushed himself up and away from Valjean's body, crawling down the bed as Valjean had done minutes earlier, and lowered his face to the intersection of the man's thighs.  He tasted the slight hint of pale fluid at the tip of Valjean's length, ran a cursory tongue all the way down to the balls, nosed there a moment, and then pulled those thighs apart.

Valjean shuddered, anticipating what would happen, but also imagining all the other things that this man could do in such a position.  And to think, he used to think that the worst thing this man could do to him was put him back in jail.

Javert's first lick up the inside of Valjean's thigh was slow and searching, but after a few attempts, he discovered that the saliva dried too fast that way, did not accumulate in the way it needed to, and so his head began to move restlessly between his legs, up and under the testicles, tongue flicking and wetting every place that it could touch.  Valjean knew why.  It would be too dry otherwise.  Nevertheless, he could not deny that his prick demanded attention, and occasionally he would groan out his need, and Javert would concede and suckle it briefly.  

That was secondary to his main pursuit, however, and soon his thighs were as moist as they were going to be.  With a soft hum of satisfaction, Javert reached for Valjean's knees, and pushed his legs together tightly.  Then he climbed on top of the older man, spreading his own legs to straddle those thighs, and leaned forward.

"If this fails..." he said, in a way that was unclear to whom he was speaking, but regardless, Valjean reached for one of his hands and squeezed.  No words were necessary.

It was awkward at first, as was perhaps a foregone conclusion.  Javert leaned forward, resting his elbows under Valjean's arms, then deciding to curl his hands under his armpits and hold on as he thrust between the older man's slippery thighs.  The first time he penetrated those clamped legs, his face opened as though he were screaming, but no sound emerged.  It must have been good to feel such tight flesh around him.

"Valjean," Javert moaned after a few more reflexive movements of his hips, "what am I doing?  Oh... why can't I stop?"  But Valjean did not want him to stop anyway, and flexed his buttocks to encourage Javert's erratic movements, which gradually slowed and then sped up into an actual rhythm.  As Valjean watched, the other man's eyes rolled up in his head, and it was clear that he had become a sightless beast.

As for Jean Valjean, he could see everything: the beads rolling down the other man's face, the way his mouth twitched in time with his hips, as though he wanted to smile or speak but had forgotten how, the way the tendons strained from his neck to his collarbone, and the way his hair clumped over his forehead and swayed with his rhythm.  More, though, he could feel everything, each drop of sweat or saliva, each muscle straining to move in a way that it had been designed to, the bedsheets dampening beneath him and the shudders of the bedpost against the wall.  And, of course, the constant, rolling pressure on his own manhood.

After a few moments, Javert finally regained the power to produce words: "too dry," he said.  Indeed, Valjean had also noticed that his thighs were beginning to chafe, and he could only imagine that the sensation must be even more stressful on that most sensitive place on a man.  "Dry," he repeated helplessly.  It was.  It hurt.

And yet Valjean smiled through his gasps and licked his palm and fingers, sliding it between his own thighs to wrap around Javert's cock.  He repeated the motion as Javert groaned and did his best to still his movements, only mostly succeeding, but it was enough for Valjean to reapply the necessary lubrication; for his last act in this temporary lull, he moistened himself as well.  Then he brought his hands back down to the small of Javert’s back and pulled upward, urging him on again.

“What do you want, Javert?” asked Valjean one last time when the other man dropped his head into the curve of his neck and shoulder, unable to keep energy in the rest of his body.  The reply was just a breathless moan in his ear.

“ _This_.”

Sparks from every extremity were gathering closer and closer to that single point rubbing with a regular tempo against Javert's belly, and, as though from a great distance, he heard his own gasps begin to become vocalized and closer together. He could feel Javert moving faster as well, more desperately, his cries into Valjean’s neck even more pitiful and needy. In one last conscious act, Valjean squeezed his thighs tight around Javert right as he pistoned in completely, then relaxed them a second later.

That was it for the inspector; his brow furrowed and his body froze for the briefest instant, and then his prick pulled free of Valjean's grip, thrust in once more, and shot his release between his thighs, his body arching like a frightened cat's as he shuddered from head to toe, groaning. Unsteadily and seemingly without intentionality, he resumed thrusting as his climax subsided, unconsciously and fervently striving to extend the moment. It was this arrhythmic and near-violent motion against Valjean that finally brought all the sparks building inside him to one breathtaking explosion, which absorbed even his voice, as all he could do was whimper as the seconds of pleasure overwhelmed him.

So this was how this act finished.

So this was the end of Javert’s supposed Sin, mused Valjean wryly as his thoughts pieced themselves back together, fighting against his pounding heart and his lax muscles.  So now he would not die untouched.  It was nothing like the times he had experienced alone, and not only because he had never felt like this with a grown man’s weight interfering with his attempts to catch his breath.

For a moment, he thought that Javert may have fallen asleep on top of him, and he would have been fine with that, but then the other man groaned.  “Oh… 24601, what have I done?”

In any other circumstance, hearing that number would have made the long-chained beast of Toulon inside Jean Valjean roar, but in this moment, it was almost endearing.

He turned his head slightly to reply, but instead Javert captured his lips in a weak, lingering kiss.

“What you wanted,” said Valjean when he was released, then smiled.  “Although I think that you failed to spill your seed upon the ground.”  He shifted a little, strangely amused by the cooling stickiness beneath him.

Javert’s lips pursed, and he rolled off Valjean, only to push him even further, yanking the bedsheet out from beneath the both of them.  He wadded up the cloth and threw it to the floor.

“Close enough,” he said, then came back to Valjean’s arms atop the bare mattress.

They held each other, and Valjean could only presume that Javert’s thoughts mirrored his own: this was one of the strangest and most unforeseen experiences he had ever had.

But, he thought, it was presumptuous to assume that the other man felt the same way he did, so he murmured into the man’s tousled hair, “How do you feel now?”

Javert chuckled into the brand on Jean Valjean’s shoulder.  It took some time for him to come up with the words he sought.  “Like my irreproachable life may be over,” he said.

Valjean felt a familiar fear for a moment -- one that had first arisen when he had realized that Javert was not there to arrest him, but to bring something entirely different upon his own person.  “Inspector,” he began timidly.  “You…”

“I wonder what this new life will bring,” Javert continued, giving no sign that he heard his former quarry’s words.

Jean Valjean breathed a sigh of relief, and pulled the man closer to him.  He had no idea what would come after this night, what they might become to each other -- if anything at all, which also might be a welcome change -- but for now, he felt safer than he had in years.  Perhaps decades.

The other man’s breathing was evening out, but apparently, he had one last thing to say.  “I did not come here for this with you, you know,” he said.  “Tonight was not supposed to finish this way.”

He knew.  “Would you rather have done this with a prostitute?” he teased tiredly, all thoughts of prison and sin from his mind as pure relaxation took over.  “I suspect a lady would have required less preparation and creativity.”

“I could not have done this with a whore,” Javert mumbled into Valjean’s shoulder, his words slurring all the more.  “Impossible.  Would have been.  Only...” The last word was lost in sleepy babble.

Valjean chuckled and stroked the back of the man’s neck with his thumb and two fingers, as though gentling a wild creature.  Before long, Javert’s breaths were completely even, deep, and with a slight snore that reminded Valjean of a tiger’s purr.  He pulled the blankets up and sighed.  It had, indeed, been a very strange day, and perhaps an even stranger night.  New lives were all well and good, but for the moment, he wondered what tomorrow had in store.

Before he slept also, he stretched his body one more time, feeling sore and loose in his muscles all at once, but with a sense of deep satisfaction in his belly and chest.  If this experience with his former hunter reflected in any way what Cosette had to anticipate for her wedding night -- mind, with a body that God had clearly created for an easier and even more unifying version of the act -- her father would be able to sleep well that night, knowing that he had given his daughter away to something grand.


End file.
